Recovery
by T.L. Odell
Summary: A sequel to "Immunity". Duncan finds that relying on friends is not necessarily a bad thing.


Recovery

Standard disclaimers apply.I don't own any of the characters, but someone special to me makes a brief appearance,with her consent.

A sequel to "Immunity," although it can be read on its own. Thanks again to Sandra McDonald for her meticulous beta reading. Any errors are strictly my own. Thanks also to MacGeorge for letting me borrow some of Duncan's memories, to Nicole for helping with the forms, to Jessica for getting Mary out of the melted yak butter, and to Randy Ferrance for the medical consult. 

Recovery   
[By T.L. Odell][1]

Duncan MacLeod awoke with a start, his heart pounding. He sat up in bed in his darkened loft and concentrated on slowing his breathing. What had awakened him? At 4:00 a.m., he heard only the hum of distant traffic. Not even the birds were chirping their morning calls yet. Straining to hear any unusual sounds, he peered carefully through the curtains, then crept slowly around the loft, checking the windows, the elevator, the back door. All were locked, just as they had been the last four times he had examined them. He poured himself a glass of water in the kitchen and returned once again to bed. There were still a few hours left before daylight; maybe he'd be able to get some sleep. 

After tossing and turning for half an hour, Duncan admitted defeat and turned on the bedside light. Maybe reading would help. He hadn't finished the Clancy novel he'd started at Anne Lindsey's last week. Although he was enjoying the book, he couldn't get through more than ten or twenty pages before his eyes would close. If only he could sleep more than an hour or two at a time. He was over the worst, but until the virus was completely out of his system, he had the same healing powers of any mortal. Anne had repeatedly told him that he would be fine once he was over this strange 'immortal flu' yet, but he still had trouble believing it. His conscious and his subconscious seemed to be constantly at odds. Somehow, a part of him buried too deeply for logic to reach, kept insisting that he was destined to live the rest of his life out as a mortal. He closed the book and memories of the last week washed over him. 

*** 

He had tried to be a good patient, but as Anne had pointed out, 'patient' was absolutely the wrong word. He couldn't stand to stay in bed, but he hadn't had the strength to walk around for more than a few minutes. He tried getting out of bed, standing propped against the headboard until the dizziness passed. Then he would walk slowly to the dresser and hold onto that for a while. Finally, covered with sweat, and knees shaking, he would lie down again. Or, he'd make his way to the living room and collapse on the couch. He knew Anne was beginning to lose her patience with him as well. After being Immortal for more than four hundred years, he just couldn't deal with any healing that took longer than a day. When he could finally make the trip to the kitchen without leaning on any furniture for support along the way, he tried to pronounce himself cured. He remembered the way Anne had tried to prove that he wasn't ready to be up and around. 

"Anne, I'm going stir crazy. I feel fine, and I need to be moving around. Can't I get out for a while?" he had pleaded. 

"So, you think you're fine, do you? Tell you what. Let's just go for a little ride in the car," she said. "But I'm driving. You can just sit there, get some fresh air, and see how strong you really are." 

He pulled his long topcoat over his sweats, laced on his sneakers and met Anne at the front door of her house. As he walked across the front porch and down the steps to the driveway, he felt the weakness in his legs. Determined that working the muscles was what he needed, he ignored the quivering, as well as the way he seemed to be breathing a bit harder than he should from just walking across a driveway, and got into the passenger seat of Anne's silver Bonneville. 

Anne was already at the car, closing the trunk. She smiled at him, but Duncan saw a look of exasperation in her eyes. "I packed a couple of sandwiches and some juice. How about if we drive to the lake and have a picnic? It's about a twenty minute drive." 

"Sounds great." 

But as they drove along the winding mountain road, Duncan found that it became more and more of an effort to stay focused. His vision was narrowing, and a bright gray light was taking the place of the road ahead. He wished that he could recline the front seat without Anne noticing; he absolutely refused to pass out. 

They never got to the lake. Anne had to pull the car over so he could be sick at the side of the road. He was barely able to walk up the steps when they got back to her house, the sandwiches still in the cooler in the trunk. She helped him back into bed, lecturing in that tone that brooked no nonsense. 

"You just don't think about how much effort it takes for the human body to function, do you? You take it for granted. Well, think about it. You're sitting up, not lying down – Your heart's working harder to pump blood to your brain. Then, as the car moves, it's bouncing, twisting, accelerating, decelerating… and your muscles are constantly counterbalancing against the car's motion. Sitting still in a moving car is a lot harder that it sounds." 

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" 

"To be honest, no, I didn't." He heard the frustration in her voice. "But you don't seem to respond to the spoken word. I figured the only way to make my point was to show you first hand." 

He stayed with Anne for two more days, doing his best to be positive. This 'immortal flu' was devastating but not fatal. Knowing he could die had created a vicious cycle. He couldn't stand the weakness, so he kept testing his limits. But the more he tested them, the more he let the virus maintain its foothold in his system. He had been sick for over a week now, and it was time to get back to his own environment. Somehow, he knew that in his own home, in his own bed, he'd get well much faster. 

He was also beginning to feel more and more like an imposition. The overheard bits and pieces of Anne's lengthy late night telephone conversations with her new lover, Jared, made him feel self-conscious. Although Anne never wavered in her willingness to care for him, he sensed that her mind was turning more to Jared as his homecoming approached. Anne and Duncan had resolved any issues between them about her leaving Seacouver to take the new job in Indianapolis, and to be with Jared. He knew that he, Anne and Mary would remain friends. But Jared would be returning very soon, and Duncan just didn't want to be around. 

Joe Dawson and Methos came to see him at Anne's a few days later. Duncan had insisted on leaving; Anne had insisted it wouldn't be safe for him to make the two-hour drive back to Seacouver. 

"Remember, you couldn't handle a twenty-minute drive as a passenger two days ago. How do you think you're going to get all the way back home by yourself. As your doctor, I don't think you should go. As your friend, I absolutely forbid it. What if you got into an accident? Your reflexes are slow, you're still weak …" 

"Okay, Anne, okay." He didn't want to hear her say anything about him getting injured and not healing. "I accept your decision. But I still want to get back." 

"Let me call Joe. He's been a great help." 

Joe Dawson agreed that he and Methos, or Adam Pierson as Anne knew him, would drive up the following day and Methos would drive Duncan back in his car. Methos and Joe concurred that the contagion period had passed, and that the ancient Immortal should be safe from the virus. Duncan was in the bedroom packing the last of his belongings when he heard their voices at the front door. 

"I understand you've got a freeloader who needs disposing of," he heard Methos say. 

"You made good time, guys. Come in." 

'Traffic was pretty light most of the way. How's Duncan doing?" asked Joe. 

"He should be out in a second. He's just finishing packing." 

Duncan's chest felt caught in a vise, and he struggled to breathe. His pounding heartbeat reverberated in his head. His mouth was dry; his palms were suddenly wet, and he wiped them on his jeans. He leaned on the bed for support. He should have felt Methos' arrival as soon as he reached the driveway. But he was in the house, and he hadn't known. Once again, the recurring feeling of panic threatened to overwhelm him. 

Get a grip, he thought, taking a few deep breaths. Although the first inhale was shaky, he managed to control his breathing before he picked up his duffel bag and went out to the living room. He would not discuss his sensory lapse in front of Anne; she was unaware that Methos was Immortal. There would be plenty of time on the drive back to Seacouver. 

Afraid his voice would give away his fear, Duncan merely nodded to his friends. 

"Hi, Mac," said Methos. Nothing in the slender man's face or voice indicated anything unusual had happened. 

"You sure look a heck of a lot better than the last time I saw you," said Joe. 

Duncan cleared his throat. "I feel a lot better, too." 

Anne spoke up. "Why don't you all sit down for a while? How about some coffee or tea and something to eat? You've been driving for a couple of hours; relax for a little while before heading back." 

"Coffee would be great, if it's not too much trouble," said Joe. 

"Black, right? How about you Adam? Duncan?" 

"I'm fine," said Duncan. 

"Coffee for me, Anne. Thanks. Black with a little sugar." 

"Go sit in the living room. I'll be right back," said Anne as she went into the kitchen to fix the coffee. 

"So what's going on?" asked Joe, raising an eyebrow and looking at Mac. "You're staring at Adam like he was a ghost." 

"Not now, Joe." Duncan sat in the easy chair by the fireplace and motioned his friends to the couch. 

Anne returned to the living room and set a carved wooden tray with a platter full of brownies on the coffee table. "Chocolate's my downfall when I need a pick-me-up. They're homemade, if you count using baking mixes. The coffee will be ready in a couple of minutes." 

Methos leaned forward and helped himself to a brownie. "Delicious," he mumbled over a mouthful of the chewy chocolate confection. "Mac, you should definitely have one." 

"A little rich for me, still." 

"So you have learned a few of your limitations. It's about time," Anne said with a chuckle as she got up to get the coffee. 

"What was that supposed to mean?" asked Joe. 

"Never mind," Duncan replied. He didn't want to discuss how his stomach had rebelled violently any time he departed from the bland diet Anne insisted on. 

Anne brought another tray with three mugs of steaming coffee. "Sure you don't want a cup, Duncan?" she asked as she handed Joe and Methos theirs. "It ought to be all right with plenty of milk and sugar." 

"No, thanks." 

The foursome talked for a while, enjoying the coffee and sweets. Anne told them about her new position, and showed off some recent pictures of Mary. "Sorry, it's a Mom thing. It must be some dormant gene that's activated during the birthing process." 

"Don't sweat it. She's an adorable kid, and you have every right to let us know how she's doing. We certainly don't get to see much of either of you, and now you're going away. Promise you'll keep in touch," said Joe. 

"I will. Promise." 

"We really have to be heading back now," said Methos as he gathered the empty mugs and carried them into the kitchen. Duncan watched Anne follow with the tray of brownies, and saw the Immortal remove another from the platter. 

"Four? I guess you weren't just being polite," she said. He heard the teasing in her voice. 

"Actually, I think it was five, but who's counting?" countered Methos as he headed back to the living room. "They were very good, really." 

Joe had excused himself to use the bathroom before beginning the drive home. Anne was rinsing off the dishes and covering the remaining brownies. "Did you know I was here?" Duncan asked Methos under his breath. 

"Later," the older man replied as Anne returned to say goodbye. 

"You make sure this one takes care of himself," she said to Methos, smiling. "He sometimes has trouble following directions, even when they're in his best interest." Her tone turned serious. "If he keeps moving too fast, he'll have a relapse. I can almost guarantee it." 

"We'll keep an eye on him. If you'll excuse me for a minute," he said as Joe returned, and he walked down to the bathroom. 

"Thanks for keeping an eye on this stubborn old Scot," said Joe to Anne. "Even if he doesn't show his appreciation properly, I know how much you've done for him. Now we'll take him off your hands and you can get back to planning for your new life." 

"Things will certainly be dull around here for a while. I might even miss him. You take care, too," she said as she kissed Joe on the cheek. 

Joe headed out to his car. "I'll stop at the store on the way back and replenish Mac's supplies. Plenty of chicken soup." 

Methos came back to the door. "Keys," he demanded of Duncan, who tossed them over. He picked up Duncan's bag, kissed Anne and started walking to the car. "Don't worry about anything, Anne. We're going to make sure he follows the doctor's orders." 

Duncan took both of Anne's hands in his own. "I insist on seeing you and Mary at least once before you leave. I'd like to meet Jared, too. Look at me," he insisted. She gazed into his eyes. "Thank you. For everything," he said huskily. He released her hands and embraced her, running his fingers through her hair. 

"You behave yourself," she said with a catch in her voice. "I'm going to have Adam and Joe spying on you, you know. And I'll call you, too. I can tell if you're lying to me." 

"I'm fine." And then he laughed out loud, thinking about how many times he had said that, and how many times it had been an outright lie. Anne's laughter joined his, and she waved as he got into the passenger seat of his car. 

Methos put the top down on the convertible as they drove off into the fall afternoon. The sun was shining, and the trees still showed their fall colors. Somehow, Duncan thought the day was much too cheerful; he wanted dark clouds, maybe even some thunder, to be in keeping with his mood. Duncan looked over at his friend, the old Immortal's hawk-like features exaggerated in profile. "Now, tell me the truth, Methos," he demanded. "Did you know I was in the house?" 

"No," his friend replied quietly. "I was surprised when you came walking into the room. What about you?" 

"Nothing. Not a damned thing." 

"Look on the bright side. If you're not sending, nobody's going to single you out in a crowd and challenge you." 

"But what if someone is just carrying a grudge? I won't know they're coming for me, and I could be dead before I know it." 

"Why would someone want to take your head in your condition? There'd be no Quickening." 

"Do you know that for sure? Better yet, would they know that?" 

"Point taken. But, perhaps you've got an inflated picture of your importance in the Game. Or is there someone looking for you that I don't know about?" 

"I don't know, Methos. I just don't know." 

The drive back to Seacouver continued as Duncan weighed his companion's words. Methos had a point. Unless he was recognized by sight, no one would know what he was. But that doubt, which led to that tightening in the pit of his stomach just wouldn't go away. Again he tried to ignore it. It wasn't getting any easier. He forced himself to watch the scenery, to listen to the radio, to stay awake. He wasn't going to doze off and display his nightmares in front of Methos. He attempted some conversation, and Methos chattered back, telling stories of some of his past escapades, mostly about being caught in delicate situations with attractive young women. Duncan noted that battles with other Immortals were never mentioned. 

At the dojo, the ancient Immortal accompanied his younger friend upstairs to his apartment. "Go home," Duncan said adamantly. "I don't need a baby sitter." 

"I agree. But until Joe gets here, I'm without wheels. Got any beer?" 

"I'm sure there's some in the fridge. Help yourself." 

Methos was already on his way into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and started pulling things out and throwing them into the trash. "Looks like a junior high science fair in here. Thank goodness the beer's still intact," he said as he grabbed a bottle. Popping the top, he sauntered to the couch and flopped down, putting his feet on the coffee table. 

Duncan looked at him, but said nothing. The drive had tired him, and he wasn't feeling any less vulnerable. 

"Sit down. Go to bed. Do something. Don't just stand there," said Methos. "I know of what I speak." 

The sounds of the elevator startled Duncan, and he started to reach for his sword. 

"It's nobody," remarked his friend, still drinking his beer. "Probably Dawson with some food." 

Duncan released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and went to help Joe with the bags of groceries. 

"You, sit," Joe commanded. "Methos, get off your skinny ass and give me a hand." 

With an exaggerated grimace, Methos uncoiled his lanky frame from the couch and started taking things out of the bags and putting them away. 

"At least let me do some of that," said Duncan as he went to the kitchen. "Otherwise I won't be able to find anything." 

As the last bag was emptied, Joe spoke. "You know, you really should rest, Mac. Go sit down, and I'll heat up some soup." 

"You don't need to bother." 

"Oh, yes I do. I promised Anne that I wouldn't leave until I saw you eat something. And I'm not going to go against her orders, you can count on that." 

Duncan admitted to himself that he was both tired and hungry, and he chided himself for not being able to be honest with his friends. They knew each other's feelings, probably better than each understood his own. He ran his hands through his hair and sat down at the table. "That does sound good, Joe. Thanks." 

Joe gave Duncan a look that conveyed compassion and concern as he placed the bowl of soup in front of him. "If you're all right, I've got to get back to the bar." 

Duncan smiled at his friends. "Thanks again for everything. I promise, I will finish my soup, brush my teeth and climb into bed for a nap, okay?" 

The phone rang, and Joe reached it before Duncan could respond. "MacLeod residence," he said into the mouthpiece. "Hi, Anne. Yes, he's here, safe and sound and eating soup. Chicken with rice." 

As Joe handed Duncan the phone, he headed for the door where Methos was waiting. 

"Bye, Mac," said Methos. "Don't do anything stupid." 

Duncan waved them away and repeated his oath of good behavior to Anne. 

*** 

And now it was two days later, and he still hadn't shaken the fear. Joe, Anne, or Methos – sometimes all three – called regularly to see how he was doing. He told them he was improving: no fever, he was keeping food down, he was beginning to exercise. He couldn't bring himself to tell them about the underlying current of panic, illogical as it might be, that would not leave. I'm afraid to go to sleep. Some Immortal could come for me, and I wouldn't sense him in time to defend myself, never mind that I'm still barely strong enough to swing my sword. 

Duncan looked at the clock. 6:30. He must have dozed off. He returned to Tom Clancy. 

*** 

Joe Dawson looked out the window of his bar. The rain was still coming down. Normal for Seacouver this time of year, but nonetheless gloomy. Even more so after the recent Indian summer weather. The lunch crowd, sparse because of the storm, had departed. Things would probably be quiet until the Wednesday night regulars showed up. He would have a few hours to try to catch up on paperwork. 

He heard the door open and looked over. Mac had just walked in, bearing only a fleeting resemblance to the Highlander Joe knew so well. Shoulders drooping, face pale and drawn, he looked worse than he had when they had dropped him off at the dojo three days ago. "You look like shit. What's wrong?" 

"And a pleasant good afternoon to you, too. Beer, please. Don't give me that look. I'm a grown man, and I want a beer." His voice resounded with irritation, and his face showed exhaustion as he took a seat and positioned himself so he could see the door. 

Joe pulled a beer and set it in front of the Highlander. "Take off that coat; you're dripping all over my bar." 

"Can't do that, Joe." 

"You really think someone's going to come in here and challenge you while I'm around? You'll be able to get to your sword if you really need it." 

Duncan shrugged out of his coat, but draped it over the barstool next to him instead of hanging it on the coat rack in the corner by the door. He took a sip of his beer and sat there. 

"So, is this where I say, 'What the hell's the matter with you?' or are you going to volunteer the information by yourself? When's the last time you slept?" 

Duncan exhaled slowly. His voice was husky but defiant when he finally spoke. "Last night. I just don't sleep for very long." 

Joe walked over to the door and turned the sign indicating that the bar was now closed. He wouldn't miss many, if any, customers at three in the afternoon on a rainy Wednesday. "Come into the back." 

Duncan picked up his coat and his beer, and followed Joe into his office. "I can call Methos," the bartender said quietly. 

"No. Please. I just had to get out. I'd rather not talk to Methos about this. He already thinks I'm crazy. No need to reinforce it." 

"Go on." 

"Did Methos tell you that I didn't know he was at Anne's the other day?" 

"No, he didn't mention that little tidbit. You mean your radar wasn't working?" 

"Nothing. He wasn't reading me, either." 

"Let me guess. You've been afraid to sleep. You're sure someone's going to come for you." 

Duncan's eyes showed surprise and relief that Joe understood as he nodded his head in agreement. 

"Why didn't you call? You have friends. We're here for you. Damn your Highlander pride and stubbornness!" 

"I guess I thought it would pass if I waited just a little longer." 

"Well, you're lucky you haven't had a relapse. Or have you? What else are you too proud to talk about?" 

Duncan looked back down into his beer. "Nothing. Really. No fever, I'm eating, and I've even started working out. It's just a mental thing. I've been meditating, but I can't shake it." 

Knowing that this was as close to 'Help me, please' that he was going to get from his friend, the bartender moved toward the phone. "Stay right where you are and enjoy your beer. I'll set something up." 

"I don't want a babysitter. I told you that. I just needed to get out." 

"What you need is some uninterrupted sleep. And a friend." 

Joe made the call to Methos. He was sure Mac had known he would do it when he came over. Why he couldn't just have called Methos himself was beyond him. The obstinate Highlander would do just about anything to help just about anyone, putting himself at risk in the process. The only thing he seemed incapable of doing was asking for help. 

"Finished your beer?" 

Duncan swallowed the last mouthful, wiped the foam from his mouth and set his glass down on Joe's desk. 

"Good. Now go home. Go directly home. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. If it makes you feel better, take your sword and lock yourself in your bathroom, but go home and wait for Methos. He should be there shortly after you get home, if he doesn't beat you there." 

Joe heard Duncan mumble something unintelligible. "What did you say?" 

"I said, 'Yes, Father.'" He added, "But I'll get there first, because I'm sure Methos will have to pick up some beer before he comes over. I think he finished mine the last time he was there." 

"Great. Now get out of here so I can open my bar back up. Who knows how much money you've cost me?" 

"Right." Duncan paused and looked as if he were about to speak. Joe waited, but Duncan merely picked up his coat and headed for the exit. 

"You're welcome," Joe whispered. Damned stubborn Highlander, he thought again. 

* * * 

At five o'clock, the doorbell rang in the dojo, followed by an identifying shout from Methos, and Duncan sent the elevator down. When the door opened into the loft, the old Immortal looked questioningly at his younger friend. Duncan shook his head. 

"Same here." 

As expected, Methos had a large bag filled with beer, and a smaller one, which Duncan assumed contained some personal effects. Leave it to Methos and his priorities. He almost smiled. 

"Joe was right. You look terrible. Want to talk first or sleep first?" 

"Think it'll stop raining soon?" 

"Okay, talking's done. Go to bed. Or would you like a beer? No, wait. This is my beer. You get this," as he pulled a bottle of Glenmorangie from his bag. Without waiting for a response, he found a glass, poured two fingers of the amber liquid into it and handed it to his friend. "Drink it here, or drink it in bed. Nobody will bother you. And I'm not leaving until we feel each other coming a mile away. That's final." 

Duncan stood there, unable to move for a moment. As he absorbed the meaning behind his friend's flippant words, the tension left his body. The vise in his stomach released, and the control he had been forcing over his fears snapped. He felt the tears begin to run down his face, and he felt no shame. Methos carefully extracted the whisky glass from his hand, set it on the table, and put his arms around him until he was finished. 

Methos led him to the bed and helped pull off his boots. The relief at knowing he was safe was enough to send Duncan into a sound dreamless sleep. 

*** 

After carefully pouring Duncan's untouched whisky back into the bottle, Methos finished a second beer and pulled a Queen CD from his bag. If nothing else, I've learned to bring my own tunes when I visit, he thought, starting the player with the volume turned low. He hoped the stubborn Highlander would throw off the virus's effects soon. Methos tried to remember what it had been like to be mortal. Five thousand years was such a very long time ago; he really had no clear memories of what his life had been like before he met his first death. To know that people wanted to take your head was a burden to live with. But not to know who they were, or if they were nearby would send anybody over the deep end. 

Perhaps the best thing for Duncan would be to get him away from Seacouver, somewhere where no other Immortal might come looking for him. If he could be somewhere he felt safe, maybe he'd be his old stubborn Boy Scout self once again. It certainly hadn't worked out at the dojo. What about his island getaway? That was holy ground; he would be safe there as long as he needed to be. Of course, he was in no condition to get there himself, and Methos didn't really relish the idea of living the primitive lifestyle of the cabin, but it shouldn't be for too long, should it? So far, all the information he'd been able to uncover about this epidemic indicated that two weeks was about as long as the virus should last. Even given Duncan's propensity for aggravating his condition, he shouldn't be infected for more than another week. Then, a little time for training, and all should be well. 

The CD had finished. Methos turned off the machine and listened to his friend's gentle snoring. He went back to the living room and stretched out on the couch, sword on the floor beside him. No one will get by me, Highlander. Sleep. 

*** 

Duncan awoke and looked at the bedside clock. 11:30. He'd slept about six hours. No wonder he felt refreshed. That was more sleep than he'd managed at one stretch in the last three days. He heard Methos in the kitchen, and smelled coffee brewing. The old man must be planning to stay awake all night. Duncan got up to use the bathroom and noticed that it was still raining, but it was definitely daylight. Amazed that he had slept almost around the clock, he went out and found Methos rummaging around in the refrigerator. 

"Ah, you decided to get up after all. I take it you slept okay?" 

"I guess I needed it. Thanks." 

"Don't mention it. Hungry? I make an amazing French toast, if I do say so myself. Learned it from a delightful French woman in Paris in…" 

"Stop," interrupted Duncan, helping himself to a cup of coffee. "I would love some, but no stories until I've finished my coffee, please. Besides, French toast isn't really French." 

Methos mixed, dipped and fried, and Duncan realized that he was truly hungry. He grabbed a plate and reached for the frying pan. 

"Nothing like nineteen hours of sleep to make a new man out of you," Methos was saying. "Careful! That handle is hot!" 

"Shit!" exclaimed Duncan, dropping the pan back onto the stove. 

"Let me see your hand." 

"I'm fine." 

"Anne warned me you'd say that for everything. Now let me see your hand. I used to be a doctor, remember?" 

Duncan displayed the palm of his hand. Methos pulled him to the sink and began running cold water over the obvious burn. "Bet that smarts." 

"I've had worse." 

Both Immortals watched the scalded skin. The injury showed no signs of diminishing. Duncan went over and picked up an aloe plant overgrowing its pot on the windowsill. 

"Didn't figure you for the Martha Stewart type," commented Methos." 

"Actually, it's left over from when Anne stayed here. She burned herself all the time. That plant just won't die." 

Methos broke one of the succulent's fat green leaves and applied its slimy gel to Duncan's palm. "That should make it feel better. You should cover it; it's the air that causes the stinging. Not to mention that the aloe is sticky" 

"I think I can handle it." 

"Your call, but no need to be a hero. It'll be fine by tomorrow; shouldn't even blister. Just hurt like hell for a while." 

Duncan manipulated a piece of French toast onto his plate, poured on some syrup and tried to ignore the throbbing in his hand. "Very good." He ate three pieces, enjoying the taste of food for the first time in over a week. 

"I'll do the dishes. Why don't you go get cleaned up?" 

Duncan left the room, peeling off the sweats he had been wearing for the last two days as he walked toward the bathroom. He stood in the shower, letting the hot water run over him, hoping it would wash away the tension. His attempts to keep his injured hand away from the water met with little success, and served as a constant reminder that he was not himself. He told himself again that he would get over this. He had to. He dressed slowly, straightened the comforter on his bed and tried to meditate for a while. After about an hour, he returned to the living room and Methos. 

"I have to say you look and smell a lot better," said Methos. "Hand okay?" 

He nodded. It hurt, but wasn't unbearable. Duncan had replaced the old sweats with a clean set, and sat down on the chair across from his friend. Methos brought the chess set over and began setting up the pieces, a beer conveniently located nearby. "Game?" 

"Fine." 

After two hours of quiet chess, Methos spoke softly without looking up from the board. "What was it like?" 

"What was what like?" 

"Your life between your first death and finding out about the Game?" 

"I thought you had all that information in the Watcher records." 

"I've read bits of the paper version. There's very little about that part of your life. Besides, they're just words. What did you feel?" 

Duncan paused and looked across the board at his friend. Methos looked up and stared into his eyes, his piercing gaze insisting on an answer. The Highlander stood and walked to the bar, pouring himself a Glenmorangie. Returning to his seat, he held the glass and stared into its golden depths, as if it were a Magic 8 Ball that would give him an easy answer, before taking that first sip. Warmed by the 'water of life', he tried to respond to the question. 

"I was desperate. Terrified. Confused. Also cold and hungry most of the time. And helpless." 

"How did you survive?" 

"By refusing to die, I guess. I didn't know I was Immortal. I'm sure I did die, probably more than once, but I didn't understand what was happening." 

"How did you fight the loneliness?" 

Another breath, another sip of whisky. "Not all that well. I was sure I was going mad on more than one occasion. There was an old woman, also banished, who had a cottage not too far from where I was hiding. She began to tolerate my presence. I brought her game when I caught it, and she started to trade with me. But neither of us would admit we were in need of the other." 

"Why do you think that?" 

"You know, you're starting to sound a lot like Sean Burns." 

"He was a good man; I'll take that as a compliment." 

"That he was." Duncan fought off guilt as recollections of taking Sean's Quickening started to surface. 

Methos broke into Duncan's thoughts. "Don't change the subject. I asked you why you couldn't admit needing help." 

"Methos, I don't know. I just don't know. Maybe it's the way my father raised me. Maybe I have some crooked gene. Maybe I was just trying to prove to my Clan that I could make it on my own, and accepting help felt like cheating." Duncan's voice was growing louder, and he couldn't disguise the waves of anger and frustration this discussion was causing. 

"But you survived. And you accepted help from the old woman. At some level, you knew you needed her." 

"I must have. I found excuses to end up outside her cottage, just to see another human being. I was living in a cave, for God's sake." 

"And while you were sick at Anne's?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"What was it like? Most folks enjoy lying back and having someone see to their every need." 

"It wasn't like that. I couldn't feed myself, couldn't stand by myself. I could barely sit. She fed me, she cleaned up after me -- damn it, I needed her help to piss." 

"You don't like being helpless, do you? Reminds you of those early years." 

Duncan thought about that for a moment. "You're probably right," he said softly. 

"So, as I see it, you have a conflict here. You can't stand feeling helpless, but you can't accept help from anyone. Instead, you withdraw into your own private hell. You have people who care about you, but you shut them out. You hide from them. How can that help you?" 

Duncan had no answer. He refilled his glass and returned to the chess game as Methos moved his knight. "Check." 

Moving his bishop to block, Duncan tried to concentrate on the game. He didn't beat Methos often, but he wasn't going to give up without a fight, either. Sometimes the best offense really was a good defense. Why couldn't he accept that his friends seemed to know better here? That he had to give in to his illness, to his weakness, to his fear, before he could get strong enough to defeat it. 

"You sure you want to move there?" Methos' voice brought him back to the game. 

"I'm sorry. I'm not much competition today." 

"I think you're making progress, though." 

"You're not talking about the chess game, are you?" 

Methos looked once again into Duncan's eyes, finished the last of his beer and went to the kitchen without saying a word. Duncan picked up his glass and followed him. "Talk to me." 

"Nothing I can say will change the way you feel. That's up to you. Stir fry okay for dinner?" 

"Fine." 

*** 

Methos finished cleaning up after dinner. Their conversation over the chess game had opened some of Duncan's old wounds, but now maybe they could heal cleanly. The Highlander was definitely agitated, pacing back and forth across the living room. Methos worried that Duncan would be facing another sleepless night, that without the overwhelming exhaustion of the previous night, he'd revert to being consumed by anxiety once again. 

"Why don't we go downstairs and work out a little?" 

"You hate working out." 

"Doesn't mean I don't do it. Nothing strenuous, just a few katas, something simple." 

Duncan's expression didn't change, but he took off his shoes and started for the elevator. 

"Let's try the stairs. Be a good warm-up." 

They walked down, and Methos was glad to see that Duncan showed no unsteadiness. After half an hour of exercise, Duncan was bathed in sweat, but his color was good. He was even smiling a little. 

"Well, I'm glad we did this. I noticed that you walked down the stairs with me, but I didn't see you get off the bench." 

"Well, it doesn't take two people for most of those routines, does it? Let's call it a night. You go get cleaned up, and I'll fix some hot chocolate." 

Methos got out the milk, sugar and cocoa. He had been checking the weather reports all day. The storm was a bad one, and many of the mountain roads were washed out. Getting to the island in these conditions would be impossible. He'd have to work on a Plan B. Meanwhile, Duncan still needed to sleep. He went to his bag and removed the bottle of codeine he had brought. He dissolved a dose into one of the mugs, and added a bit of brandy to both. The alcohol and the sweet cocoa should disguise any hint of the drug. He brought them over to the sleeping area, setting Duncan's down on the bedside table. 

"You weren't kidding about the hot chocolate, were you? Or is there beer in your mug?" said Duncan as he came out of his bathroom, wearing a blue velour robe and towel drying his hair. 

"What the heck; it's a stormy night, lots of lightning and thunder. That just cries out for hot chocolate." He set a mug down on the nightstand for Duncan and began sipping from his own. 

"Drink up." 

Duncan raised an eyebrow, but picked up the hot drink and sipped it. "You're right. It is good." 

"A touch of brandy makes all the difference. How's the Clancy?" 

"I wish I could tell you. I haven't been able to concentrate long enough to get into it. I'll probably read it again one day." 

Methos watched Duncan drink his chocolate, waiting for his surreptitious addition to take effect. He hated to do it, but uninterrupted sleep, even drug induced sleep, was what Duncan needed more than anything. He didn't really feel guilty about his underhandedness; he knew he was doing the right thing. He just hoped Duncan would forgive him. 

Duncan's speech was beginning to slur, and he looked at Methos with glazing eyes. "You bastard," he swore. "What did you put in this?" 

"It's for your own good. I'll be out on the couch." He helped the semi-conscious man settle under the comforter and waited until he heard the slow rhythmic breathing that showed Duncan was asleep. "Sleep well, friend," he whispered. 

***   
By morning, the storm had played itself out, but in true Seacouver fashion, there was still a constant drizzle filtering down from a dull gray sky. Methos heard stirrings from the bed followed by the sound of water running in the bathroom. He didn't think there would be any adverse side effects from last night's sleeping potion. It had probably worn off after about six hours, and Duncan would have been sleeping the rest of the night on his own. The question was, would the Highlander still be angry? 

Armed with a cup of coffee, Methos approached Duncan's bed. "Truce?" he said, putting on his best sad puppy expression. 

"Truce," repeated his friend. "As long as that coffee's for me, and there's nothing in it but coffee." 

Methos nodded and set the steaming mug down. "You look pretty good. Slept well, I take it. How's the hand?" 

"Much better. Barely pink." 

"See what happens when you listen to your elders. We're always right, you know. What do you want for breakfast?" 

"How about some oatmeal?" 

"Ach, you Scots and your parritch! I'll see what I can do." 

"It's in the cabinet next to the stove." 

"Why don't you come out and give me pointers, then. I never spent much time in the Highlands." 

Duncan gave directions, Methos simmered and stirred, and the oatmeal was pronounced 'passing fair.' 

"I'm going to meditate for a while, if that's all right," said Duncan after helping Methos clean up. 

"Fine. I'll hold down the fort out here." 

*** 

Duncan had just finished his meditation when he heard the doorbell. He automatically reached for his sword, his heart rate accelerating. 

"Relax, Mac," he heard Methos call out. "Nobody special." 

"Hi Adam. What do you mean, 'Nobody special?'" 

"Just a little joke. A bad little joke. Come on in." 

Hearing Anne's voice, Duncan got up, straightened his shirt and ran a comb through his hair. He walked out to the living area and was delighted when he saw not only Anne, but Mary as well, peering out from behind her mother. Mary's hair had grown since the last time he'd seen her; she had it pulled back into a ponytail, with deep bangs in front that intensified her sparkling big blue eyes. "Uncle Duncle," she shrieked as she raced over and hugged him around the knees. 

"Whoa, Mary Berry! How about we get that wet raincoat off you first?" He looked up at Anne, who came over to assist her daughter. She had already taken off her own coat and deposited an oversized umbrella in the corner. She was wearing blue slacks and a cream colored sweater and looked, as always, perfectly put together. Her short brown hair tucked behind her ears revealed the pearl stud earrings she wore; he was sure they were the ones he had given her for her birthday years ago. When he turned back to look at Mary, he saw that the youngster was wearing, of all things, a white gi belted in yellow. She released his knees and looked up at him. 

"How are you feeling? Mommy said you came to our house while I was at Gram's, but you were sick. I'll bet Mommy took good care of you. She's a real good doctor. I was sick once and went urpity all over the floor. Did you go urpity, too?" 

Choking back a laugh, Duncan crouched down to Mary's eye level. "Yes, I did," he said, tweaking her on the nose. "And your mom did take super good care of me. I'm almost all better now." 

Mary leaned over to whisper in Duncan's ear. "Who's that man? He has a big nose and he talks funny." 

Duncan stood up, lifting Mary in his arms. "Mary, I'd like you to meet my very special friend Adam Pierson. Adam, this is Mary." 

"How do you do, Mary," said Methos seriously. "I am very pleased to make your acquaintance." 

Mary giggled and hid her head in Duncan's neck. 

"Actually," Methos continued, "I met you once, but you weren't even two years old, so you probably don't remember me." 

"I'm six now. That takes one whole hand plus one more finger," she said, holding up the requisite number of digits. 

"That's a lot older than two," answered Methos. 

"Can we give Uncle Duncan our presents now, Mommy?" 

Duncan looked inquisitively at Anne. She merely grinned and shook her head. 

"OK, kiddo." Anne reached into a large tote and pulled out a small gift bag. "Here. This one's from me."   
Duncan set Mary down and took the shiny green bag. Removing the yellow tissue, he found a box about four inches square. Inside the box, under yet more tissue, was a pink ceramic "M" with a magnet on the back. 

"That's M for Mary," explained the girl. 

"That it is." 

"You put it on the fridge." 

"Oh, that's right. I guess I forgot." 

"Now mine, Mommy." 

Anne handed Mary a large envelope, brightly colored and covered with glitter and stickers. On the front it said, Uncle Duncan in Mary's careful printing, with only one of the c's backwards. Mary took the envelope and presented it to Duncan, a solemn expression on her face. 

"This is for you. I made them." 

Duncan opened the proffered envelope, and removed two drawings. The first was of a rather large white animal of some sort. Seeing that it was covered in black spots, Duncan correctly identified it as the large stuffed Dalmatian he had left for Mary. 'Thank You' was written across the top. 

"That's because you gave me Big Spot." 

The second drawing showed two houses joined by a colorful rainbow. A tall man with dark hair was standing in front of one house, and a man, woman, small girl and a large spotted dog in front of the other. "That's you," explained Mary, pointing to the man standing alone. "And that's Mommy, me, and Jared. And Big Spot. We're going to a new house in Indian Apples, but we won't forget you. Every time it rains, the rainbow will connect our houses." 

Duncan felt his eyes misting, and quickly wiped them. "Let's put it on the refrigerator right now," he whispered as he took Mary's hand and led her to the kitchen. Kids. They'd get you every time. 

"Now," said Duncan, changing the subject. "Tell me about your gi. You look very nice." 

"I'm going to a special Tae Kwon Do. I have to do my form and spar with someone. Want to see?" 

"Of course." 

They returned to the living room, and Duncan took a seat along with Methos and Anne. Mary marched to the center of the room. Drawing herself up to her full forty-one inches, she stood at attention and then bowed stiffly to her audience. Raising her arms, she performed several blocks, followed by a jumping front kick. As she moved through her form, complete with punches and explosive 'kihaps,' Duncan saw her mouthing her moves under her breath, a picture of concentration in miniature. She ended with a roundhouse kick and two more blocks. Rising from her final bow, she looked at the adults expectantly, and they burst into delighted applause. 

"That was great, Mary. Well done! Good job!" resounded from the adults. 

"Mommy says you know how to do those kicks, too." 

"Yes, but I couldn't do them like that when I was six." 

Duncan rose from his seat. "How would you like some juice after that wonderful demonstration. I have some in the kitchen." He took Mary by the hand and settled her in at the table with a glass of cold apple juice and some Graham crackers. "You sit here and finish that while I go talk to your mom for a minute, okay." 

Mary was already enjoying her snack, but she looked up and nodded. 

"What was that all about?" Duncan asked Anne. "You never mentioned Mary was learning Tae Kwon Do. You hate violence in any form." 

Anne raised her eyebrows and gave a sheepish grin. "You're right, and I really wasn't going to enroll her, but she wanted to take these classes with her best friend in school.   
And then I found that the discipline and respect she was picking up at the same time were really worth more than the exercise itself. You know what a fireball she can be. Now she has an outlet for some of that energy, and she's learning self control at the same time. I don't think she's ever thought of her skills as fighting; she just has a great time. I guess I was too embarrassed to mention that I was letting my daughter learn how to kick butt. We'll see how long she wants to stick with it."   


"Well, I think it's great, but you didn't drive all the way here just so she could show off her talents." 

"Actually, I did," replied Anne. "But not to you. There's a junior regional tournament in town this afternoon, and I thought we'd drop by as long as we were in the neighborhood. I called yesterday; Adam said it would be all right." 

So that's why he drugged me… wanted to make sure I was well rested before the doctor got a look at me. That little weasel. 

Mary came back into the living room, wiping juice and cookie crumbs from her mouth. "Uncle Duncan, can you come watch me? Jared's still in Indian Apples, so he can't come." 

"Mary! What did I tell you?" 

"I know. That Uncle Duncan was sick, and when you're not quite all better you still need lots of naps. But can't he take his nap after I'm done?" 

"Duncan, I'm sorry – I told her she shouldn't ask you. I'm sure there are dozens of things you'd rather be doing than watching a bunch of little kids doing martial arts." 

"Actually, it might be fun. I don't think it will be too exerting. All I do is watch, right? And I'll have the best doctor in the house right next to me if I start feeling bad." He turned to Methos. "What do you think?" 

"I think it's a wonderful idea. Can I come, too?" 

"Of course. Mary, Mr. Pierson would like to watch you, too. You'll have a great big cheering section, all right?" 

Mary whooped with glee and gave Duncan a huge hug. Then she walked over to Methos and bowed in front of him. "I would love for you to come watch me, Mr. Pierson." 

Biting his lip to keep from bursting out laughing, Methos gave Mary a serious, "You're welcome." He followed it with a quick tickle to her ribs, and Duncan knew a friendship was forged. 

"Where are we going, and what time do we have to be there?" asked Duncan. 

"The Waterfront Hotel. Mary needs to be there at eleven." 

"That's practically right around the corner. Plenty of time. Let me change." 

Duncan went into the bathroom and peeled off his sweats. He hadn't worn anything else for the last week; it might be nice to put on 'real' clothes. He pulled on some gray wool slacks and a lightweight white turtleneck. Adding a black cable-knit pullover sweater that Anne had given him years ago, he looked into the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes weren't as pronounced as they'd been, and he didn't think he looked, as Joe had put it, 'like shit' anymore. It was still raining, but somehow the depressing gloom was gone. Leave it to a six year old to bring the sunshine. 

Back with his friends, Anne spoke up. "How are you doing, Duncan? You look a little pale, but better than a week ago. No, wait. Don't answer that." She turned to Methos. 

"How's he been? I'm going to guess that because you've obviously been here for a while, someone wasn't following orders. Right?" 

"He's been doing much better. He was having some trouble sleeping, so I came over to bore him to sleep. It seems to be working." 

Duncan snorted. 

"Well then, let's go," said Anne. "Mary, don't forget to thank Uncle Duncan for the juice and cookies." 

"Thanks, Uncle Duncan," she said as she wriggled into her raincoat. "Come on." 

They drove on to the hotel and found the tournament registration desk. "Mrs. Drummond!" Mary shouted, and ran up to an attractive young brunette in black belted instructor's garb. "I'm here. So's my mom and Uncle Duncan, and Mr. Pierson, my new friend." 

Duncan reached out and shook the woman's hand. Her long hair was pulled into a French braid, and her eyes were Wedgwood blue behind wire rimmed glasses. "It's Mac. You've done quite a job containing this lightning bolt, Mrs. Drummond," he said, smiling. 

"You can call me Elyse. Mary's one of our better students. She's told me about her Uncle Duncan who 'knows how to kick and punch real good,' on more than one occasion," she said, laughing. "Have you been coaching her?" 

"Actually, today was the first that I even knew she was learning this. I run a small dojo not far from here, but Tae Kwon Do isn't my field of expertise." 

"At this level, we're geared more to the discipline and coordination angle than to self defense. But if Mary keeps at it, she should be safe on the streets when she's older." 

"I'd rather she just keep out of places where she'd need to use the skills, but I think I like what it's doing for her." 

Elyse laughed, and Duncan noticed how that made her eyes looked even bluer. She broke off. "Sorry, I have to get to my kids and make sure they're set. It was nice meeting you." 

"Nice meeting you, too." Well, it was Mrs. Drummond, and she was on the young side. But the fact that he felt any attraction at all made him feel better. Maybe he was kicking this bug at last. 

Mary's ring was next to compete. When it was her turn, she performed her forms almost perfectly, and took second place. After the forms, Anne helped her into the protective sparring gear. She was a terror on two legs, and defeated her opponent handily. After the match, she was elated. She had two trophies, both nearly as big as she was, to take home. 

"Wow!" she shouted. "Where's Mr. Pierson? Did he see me? I want to show him my trophies. Mom, we can take these to the new house, can't we? I want to show them to Jared, too." 

"Slow down, Mary," interjected her mom. "I swear, sometimes I think she doesn't need to breathe when she's talking." She turned to her daughter. "I think he went to see some of the bigger kids. But he saw you. Didn't you hear him cheering for you?" 

"I bet next time I'll get both gold ones. I always have trouble with that old roundhouse kick. I keep almost falling over." 

"You just keep practicing, Mary, and I'm sure you'll do it perfectly next time. If you want, I can show you how I keep my balance," suggested Duncan. 

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" 

Suddenly, a faint prickling resonated through Duncan's body. He froze for a moment at the familiar feeling, then slowly scanned the crowd and saw Methos walking back into the ballroom. The older man raised an eyebrow, and Duncan nodded with a grin. Methos held up his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, but even a tiny Buzz was a start. Duncan felt his throat tighten, and he blinked back hot tears of relief. He berated himself for his doubts, but knew, as Anne had pointed out, that he was the sort of person who had to be shown, not told. One Buzz was worth a thousand words. 

"Duncan, are you all right? You don't look so good all of a sudden. Maybe we should get out to the car," said Anne, concern apparent in her voice. 

Relief turned to joy as his subconscious finally accepted the fact that he was going to recover. "Nope – I'm great. Absolutely, positively, wonderfully great." He picked up Mary and swung her around, trophies and all. How about we all go get some ice cream to celebrate!" 

"Yippee!" squealed Mary. I want chocolate chocolate chip." 

Duncan looked at Anne. She tilted her head and smiled that smile that could light up the room. "Like mother, like daughter. Let's go!"   
  
  
  


   [1]: mailto:tlco777@juno.com



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